1 Silly boy, 'tis full Moone yet, Thy night and day shines clearely;
Had thy youth but wit to feare, thou couldst not loue dearely :
Shortly wilt thou mourne when all thy pleasures are bereaued ;
Little knowes he how to loue that neuer was deceiued.
2 This is thy first mayden flame that triumphes yet vnstayned ;
All is artelesse now you speake, not one word yet is fayned ;
All is heau'n that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed :
But no Spring can want his Fall, each Troylus hath his Cresseid.
3 Thy well-order'd lockes ere long shall rudely hang neglected ;
And thy liuely pleasant cheate, reade griefe on earth deiected :
Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint that made thy heart so holy.
And with sighes confeste, in loue, that too much faith is folly.
4 Yet be iust and constant still, Loue may beget a wonder ;
Not vnlike a Summers frost, er Winters fatall thunder :
Hee that holds his Sweet-hart true vnto his day of dying,
Liues of all that euer breath'd most worthy the enuying.
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www.harald-lillmeyer.kulturserver.de